


Collection of Tumblr Fic - June

by Nny



Series: Month 1: Quantity (tumblr fic) [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Derek is a creeper, Disney, Drunkenness, Ficlet Collection, Gender or Sex Swap, Kid Fic, Medication, Mutants, Song Lyrics, Stiles is also a creeper, Tumblr Fic, naps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 8,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1866153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rest of what I've been writing this month; all ficlets from <a href="http://teenwolftidbits.tumblr.com">TeenwolfTidbits</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clothes Sharing

"Here."

What feels like acres of warm fabric lands on Stiles’ head, and he climbs inside it gratefully. On Boyd the hoodie’s oversized, sleeves falling down over his hands; on Stiles it’s basically a tent. He could set up home in this thing, plus it’s _warm_ and _soft_ and such a freaking relief after the torrential downpour and subsequent shedding of three of his layers. Stiles huddles down small in the corner of the couch and pulls the neck of the sweatshirt up over his nose, humming happily. 

"I feel like someone’s girlfriend," he says, muffled, and Scott basically kills himself laughing at the look on Boyd’s face. 

"You look like an idiot," Derek says from the doorway, scowling fit to break his face. Stiles gives him the finger - or at least an emphatic gesture that’s swaddled in sleeve - and pulls the hood over his head so he’s entirely surrounded in warm fluffy Boyd-smell, just a pair of eyes in the shadow of the hood. Like assassin’s creed, or something, except instead of killing he’s using his powers for good. 

If ‘good’ is defined as ‘staring at Derek’. Derek’s fetched some kind of tea-towel from the kitchen and while it’s doing its best on the stars of moisture still beading his hair there’s not much it’ll do for the streak of clinging wet henley that an unzipped jacket had done nothing for. It’s practically indecent, semi-transparent with the water; in Stiles’ eyes it’s most definitely the definition of _good_. 

Even better when he hauls it off over his head and grabs a sweater from a pile of laundry instead. The abs are amazing, Stiles isn’t going to lie, but they’re practically as familiar as Derek’s face at this point. The sweater, though? The sweater has _thumb holes_. 

Sometimes he is a little weirded out by his fantasies, okay. Smiling and thumb holes and cuddles should not feature this prominently. 

"So what now, fearless leader?" Stiles asks, pushing the sweatshirt down again with his chin. "Since the training plan has been kind of skewered by the sky falling, and all." 

As if to punctuate his statement there’s a flash of bright light from the huge windows, with a crack of thunder following close on its heels. The light coruscates color in the werewolves’ eyes, Boyd and Scott close by his sides, Isaac lurking by the kitchen, Derek’s bright red glare fixed directly on him. Stiles ducks back inside his hood where it’s safe. 

Lydia was supposed to be here too, only she’d said something about forecasts that it seems like he should have maybe paid more attention to. It’s strange when he thinks about it, the gaps in his memory; where her words used to be cross-stitched lovingly onto the surface of his brain now he remembers her words the same way as everyone else’s, partial and absent and filed only when important. 

"Movies?" Scott says hopefully. 

"Still no TV," Derek answers, because he doesn’t believe in fun. 

"But the book!" Stiles says, suddenly excited, surging upright a little more from where he’s become one with the sweatshirt, pushing the huge sleeves up to his elbows. "You totally - don’t look at me like that, you mentioned it in my hearing, that’s practically an offer." 

"I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that," Derek says, and Stiles rolls his eyes. Like _that’s_ ever going to happen. 

"Nope, no way, no backing out, hand it over," Stiles says, because his dad’s on a night shift and the rain is torrential and there’s no way he’s leaving without taking advantage of Derek’s book collection, his hospitality, his _snacks_. 

"You’re going to _read_ ,” Scott says heavily. He’s definitely hit his next Pokemon evolution over the summer, likes reading as much as the next guy, but he doesn’t love it the way that Stiles does, doesn’t understand how it can be a kind of team sport. 

Derek tosses Scott his keys. Scott stares down at them like they’re the holy grail, the ark of the covenant, Allison’s new phone number. (Stiles doesn’t get it. Derek’s car is ugly now). 

"Give Boyd a ride home," he says. "Bring the car back when we meet tomorrow." 

Scott, oddly compliant, looks over at Isaac. “Movies?” 

Isaac grabs his jacket. “Movies,” he says. “Boyd?” He gets a nod. “Stiles?” There’s a laugh in his voice, which is probably due to the expression on Stiles’ face. He can feel it there, torn with indecision, because movies, but then there’s Derek’s book, and Derek’s snacks, and - well, and _Derek_. 

"I’m gonna stay," he says, and wriggles out of the sweatshirt, tosses it back towards Boyd a little sadly. The three werewolves clatter out and Stiles stares after them, after the _sweatshirt_ , cold and forlorn. Derek mutters something behind him and then there’s the fricative hiss of fabric. 

"Here," Derek says. He’s gone, clanking up the stairs, before Stiles has quite processed, before he’s unfolded the wad of fabric and found the sweater Derek was wearing. It’s dark red and body-warm and Stiles is going to die. He stares down at it, kind of shocked and weirdly, freakishly aroused. 

"You’re supposed to put it on," Derek says. He makes his way down the stairs again, wearing a black shirt this time, one that’s maybe a little too tight. 

"Right," Stiles says, "sure." He shrugs into it - it fits him perfectly across the shoulders, maybe a little loose in the chest. Derek seems to think so, coming closer and then - shit, smoothing it down a little. Stiles closes his eyes, praying for death, and maybe it’s the whole losing one sense thing but he can _hear_ Derek smelling him, taking a deep long breath. 

"What?" Stiles says, blinking his eyes open and staring at Derek a little incredulously. "Dude, did you just - smell me?" 

Derek frowns and looks away. 

"You did, you seriously - why did you _smell_ me?” 

"You smelled like Boyd," Derek says after a moment, with an awkward tight little shrug. "It was weird." 

"Right," Stiles says, sarcasm in every particle of his being. "And you’d rather I smelled like you." 

There’s another flash of lightning right then, throwing everything into sharp relief, so there’s no missing the look Derek throws him, the strange look on his face that’s definitely not denial, that’s maybe a little like hope. 

"You’d - rather I smelled like you," Stiles repeats, slowly. And yeah, sue him, he sounds a little incredulous, but that’s no call for Derek’s face to shut down like that, for his arms to cross tight over his chest. 

"Go home, Stiles," Derek says, and Stiles just stares at him, points at the window without looking. Seriously, he was kidding earlier, but it is genuinely starting to sound like the apocalypse out there. 

Derek rolls his eyes - rolls his head and his neck for good measure, because his commitment to sarky motion can never be doubted - and grabs a book from the shelf, tosses it at Stiles’ stomach way harder than he needs to, grabs his own and folds down onto the other end of the couch. He is radiating prickly vibes, channeling his inner hedgehog, but this is seriously the softest sweater Stiles has ever worn and he figures it’s an opposite but equal force, thing. The two will cancel each other out. He shuffles closer. 

"Read," Derek says, low and angry. 

"Absolutely," Stiles says, and shifts himself closer again. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” and this time there’s something a little hurt in his voice. Like Stiles is making fun of him, or something. Stiles shuffles close enough that his thigh and Derek’s are pressed up close, that he can rest his weight back against Derek’s side, leaning into him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

"This," Stiles says, and he shifts his weight, turns on the couch so he can lean in close to Derek’s wide eyes, can nose in under his jaw and press his open mouth to the line of Derek’s neck. There’s a little noise that gets caught in the back of Derek’s throat, a little noise that Stiles desperately wants to hear again, desperately wants to pull out of him. 

"I want you to smell like me too," Stiles says.


	2. Heart Boner

"Well first of all I’m a little offended you believed I was a virgin this long because I’m _just that unattractive_ ,” Stiles says, staring up at the ceiling. He’s only half-way kidding. 

There’s no response from the other side of the room, because of course there’s not, because the stoic silent act is a way out that Derek will always take. Stiles wipes his mouth and then rubs the hand over his face, relaxing back against the mattress like he can become one with it. 

"It’s nothing personal?" he tries. 

There’s a soft choking noise, like a protest, and Stiles girds his proverbial loins and turns his head, his hair hissing against the cheap fabric covering the pillow. Derek is practically pressed up against the wall in all his shirtless glory, his hands clenching and unclenching like he’s trying not to wipe them on his pants, like he’s trying to rid himself of the feeling of Stiles’ floppy penis.

On second thoughts, Stiles likes the ceiling better.

"Adderall," he says, after a moment or two more clenchy silence. "It’s a thing, sometimes, when I take too much." 

"You’ve been pushing yourself too hard," Derek says flatly. "You’re overtired - "

"I thought you were going to _die_ \- “

" - irrational - "

"Oh _fuck_ you.” Stiles vaults to his feet, fast enough that the slick bedspread burns against his palms, suddenly, blindingly angry. Derek looks at him with an expression like this is what he expected, what he knows, and if Stiles were a better person all the anger would probably drain out of him at this point. There’d be tender kisses and soft confessions and spontaneous manifestation of Barry White.

He’s not a better person; he almost bruises his index finger on Derek’s rock-like chest. 

"Back out of this if you need to because sometimes my dick doesn’t work, but don’t _ever_ suggest there’s no boner for you in my heart.” 

Watching the wash of conflicting emotions chase themselves all over Derek’s face is sort of hilarious, and it’s something to distract from the rising tide of heat that’s climbing Stiles’ cheeks. It only lasts a second in any case, until a big hand curls around the back of his neck, until he’s snorting out messy laughter against Derek’s shoulder. 

"Me too," Derek says against his temple, once the laughter has died down a little, once Stiles is just snuffling little giggles against his collarbone. "The - er - what you said." 

And seriously, who needs Barry White? Who needs romance? 

_Nailed it_ , Stiles thinks. 

You know. Metaphorically.


	3. Straight Up Creepin'

Derek is contemplating the wall of Poptarts and humming under his breath when Stiles marches up to him and pokes him in the chest.

"See?" he says, a little louder (like always) than the size of the store really calls for, a little smug and full of self-righteous fury. "Not so great when it’s happening to you, is it?"

"What?" Derek says behind him, but it’s too little and too late; the door is already slamming shut with a self-righteously furious tinkle.

~

It’s the time of year where heat’s still radiating off the wooden boards of the porch even in the twilight. Derek is gently stretching out his quads and eyeing the treeline.

Stiles has his hoodie on inside out so the darker lining is showing and he’s staring at the house fiercely enough that one eye is twitching.

Derek jogs a little on the spot.

Stiles doesn’t move. Just glares.

Derek shrugs.

"Door’s open," he says. "Leftovers in the fridge if you want them. Isaac made the guacamole, your choice if you want to risk it."

"I - " Stiles says, and shifts his weight. "Er. Thanks."

Derek shrugs again, and jogs off into the darkness.

~

"I seriously don’t believe you," Stiles yells, poking Derek’s chest almost hard enough to bruise. Derek grabs his finger, squeezes it lightly, doesn’t let it go.

"What now?" he asks.

"I wanted to teach you a lesson, about privacy, and stalking, and the levels of creepy that are acceptable in a relationship, but I am seriously starting to be concerned about your personal well being!"

"Yeah?" Derek asks, absently. He takes possession of the rest of Stiles’ hand, apparently for good measure.

"You’re supposed to be alert!" Stiles says. "Able to defend yourself against danger! You need to have the ability to recognise when someone is freaking _stalking_ you, man! I - what are you - ?”

Derek sweeps his thumb across the back of Stiles’ hand again.

"I recognise danger," he says. This close, shrugging brushes his arm against Stiles’. Stiles swallows, hard. "I trust you."

There’s basically no hope that Derek didn’t just hear his heart go haywire.

"…you do?"

"Obviously," Derek says, and his mouth tilts up a little at one corner. "But the staring’s a little creepy, don’t you think?"


	4. Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from 'Lousy Reputation' and 'Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt' by We Are Scientists.

"It’s burning me up," Stiles bellows along with his iPod, drumming his hands against the steering wheel in a way his dad would probably try to arrest him for, "I’ve heard it enough, I won’t let your lousy reputation put me off."

There’s a red light, so he turns his head to smirk at Derek, who’s glaring at the iPod jack like it’s done him a personal injury.

"Nuh-uh, my furry friend," Stiles says, "no denying the wonder of We Are Scientists."

Derek shoots him a sidelong glare. “Green,” he says. For he is Derek, of house Hale, and grammatically correct sentences are for other people. (He’d try coming up with house words for him, but there’s always that edge of awful with these things, when it comes to Derek).

Stiles (House Stilinski, Ours Are the Cheetos) hits the gas, and maybe there’s a little squealing in the tyres area but it’s practically the middle of the night and there’s no one around to see. It’s distracting enough that he doesn’t move fast enough to intercept, though, is left just slapping at Derek’s hands as he taps at Stiles’ iPod.

"No," he says. "Dammit Derek, foul! Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his Lean Cuisine-hole." He respects the effort that body takes, he’s not gonna mention the c-word.

Derek fends him off without looking, scrolls back through the tracks like he’s looking for something specific.

It’s kind of a surprise when it’s still We Are Scientists when he pushes it back into the holder; if there’s a message in there it’s a little bit abstract. Still, Stiles loves every note on this album, and he’s not gonna deny himself the chance to get his ‘whoa’s on.

Only Derek’s not protesting this time, just tapping his fingers on his leg out of rhythm, staring out of the window like there’s something fascinating about the orange-lit streets of Beacon Hills.

"My body is your body," Stiles sings, to the sidewalk, to the stars, to the back of Derek’s neck. "I won’t tell anybody, if you want to use my body go for it - "

"Yeah," Derek says, turning, and it’s a part of the song but it’s oddly intent, a wave of color cresting on his cheekbones.

"What?" Stiles says stupidly, turning away from the look in Derek’s eyes in order to navigate a particularly treacherous stretch of completely straight road.

"That was - " Derek gestures at the speakers, the movement jerky and awkward out of the corner of Stiles’ eye. "My point."

"…what?" Stiles says again, the jeep slowing significantly as he turns to stare at the side of his head.

"Just - think about it," Derek says, cheeks still flushed in the dim light of the car. And because he is Derek ‘Hear Me Brood’ Hale, Derek ‘We Do Not Road - Safety’ Hale, he vaults out and slams the door behind him in one motion, takes a second to get his balance and jogs away into trees.

"I’m probably making this up," Keith Murray sings unhelpfully, and Stiles snatches it away from the jack.

"You shut your cakehole," he tells the sudden awkward silence.


	5. Ohana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid fic

Stiles didn’t hear Derek get home because he was practically asleep upside down on the couch, apparently drooling if the sticky line up to his temple was any indication.

Stiles didn’t hear Derek was home until weight depressed the cushion next to him; Stiles had shifted his weight so his legs were hooked over the arm of the couch, his head was resting on Derek’s thigh, before his eyes even pried themselves open.

There was a lot to be said for waking up to Derek’s face, though. There was a little part of Stiles’ heart that was folded into exactly the shape of this particular tiny, fond smile.

"Hey," Stiles said, then cleared his voice and winced and tried again when all he could manage was a croak. "Hey. I’m sorry."

He hated raising his voice. He hated it, she hated it, Derek hated it, but some days there were broken lamps and sleepless nights and _cheerios_ on the freaking ceiling and raised voices were as far as he would go over the line. Stiles looked away from the little frown that settled between Derek’s brows, saw the lack of broken, the lack of cheerios, and winced again.

"I’m sorry, Derek, I meant to - "

"Rough day?" Derek said, and there was never anything even close to accusation in his voice, because he had been basically perfect at this since day one, which broke Stiles’ heart every time he remember about growing up in a big family, and how much this little one had to mean. Which made him hate how much he unintentionally screwed this up, every time Derek left him alone for five minutes.

He laughed a little, bitter.

"Rough day," he said, and rubbed a hand across his face. "I’m sorry."

And Derek didn’t tell him it was okay, because he knew that wasn’t for him to decide, but he bent forward enough to kiss Stiles on the forehead and then roll him off his lap.

"Yeah," he said, and pushed himself to his feet, groaning. "The duchess is in her chambers, the jester attends at her leisure."

The bedroom was lit in a gentle blue, a night light the shape of a crescent moon surrounded by glow stars above her bed. It was enough illumination to see her tiny tear-stained face, anyway, and Stiles’ heart broke a little in his chest.

"I’m sorry daddy," she said, small and wobbling and sad, and it was just that easy to forgive the demon-child she’d been all day.

"C’mere Claud baby," he said, and she was in his arms quick enough that he saw stars when her bony shoulder slammed into his jaw.

That was when Derek came in, ‘cos he wouldn’t play mediator, refused to be good cop until his equally tempestuous family had sorted themselves out.

"You’re not gonna sell me to the circus right Papa?" Claudia asked.

"Stiles - " Derek said, and Stiles ignored him, and carefully untangled a barrette, and kissed her flyaway dark hair.

"Ohana," he said, a reminder and a promise, and -

"Ohana," Claudia said solemnly back.

"Pack," Derek said, from behind them and above, and Stiles buried a rueful smile in Claudia’s hair as he thought about how long it took him to know that meant essentially the same thing.


	6. Little Spoon

"No!" Stiles says firmly, turning himself into a fleshy straight-jacket with his arms wrapped tight across Derek’s chest. Derek subsides, stops trying to turn himself over with a disgruntled sigh, but there’s no way he can disguise the relaxation of his shoulders, the way he presses back a little into Stiles’ chest.

Stiles smiles into the stubbled skin of Derek’s cheek, presses a little kiss there for good measure.

"Gonna have to face it, buddy," he says after a moment, voice low and barely more than a vibration in his throat, soft enough that no one else could ever hear it. "We are basically the same size spoon. Sometimes you get to be subject to my sleepy whims."

Derek grumbles something inaudible, but his eyelids are already drooping, and he shifts to get comfortable, tugs Stiles’ arm a little tighter across his middle.

Barring injury, blood loss, general unconsciousness, it’s maybe the only time Stiles can remember that Derek’s been the first to fall asleep.


	7. Lego

Stiles is like lego.

And only occasionally because Derek wants to pull off his head.

No.

Stiles is like lego. If Derek was going to compare him to anything, it’d be lego. Stealth lego, middle of the night lego.

And it’s possible that Stiles wouldn’t even be offended by that reference, because Stiles is an only child, and there are differences to how that works. There were enough Hales that eventually there was just a floor for the kids, no parents to come pick up after you, no one to save you from the bone-deep bruise-ache of midnight lego and upturned plugs.

So Stiles wouldn’t get that if Derek called him lego it’d just be a way of talking about the sternum-bruised ache that just doesn’t let up, the worst of the invisible pains. He wouldn’t get how it’s one of the few things werewolves aren’t immune to, deep-down tissue ache, the way it takes you so completely by surprise. How could something so innocuous affect you so deeply?

Stiles is lego. And he’d frown and say ‘what, like - flexible? Adaptable?’ And Derek’d shrug, because the first rule of stealth lego is you can’t talk about stealth lego. No one who hasn’t felt it would get it if you did.

But Stiles is lego.

And someday, when there are kids - Derek thinks, _Scott’s_ , at least consciously, because that’s the safest thing to think - someday Stiles will understand that.


	8. Stiles Is Not A Disney Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some kind of Cinderella AU??

"This is a joke," Stiles says flatly, but he can hear the little wobble in it so there’s no way Derek doesn’t.

Derek blinks, hand still outstretched, and Stiles wishes he didn’t know how it would feel, wishes he wasn’t still hanging on to that brief moment of contact after the hit from Jackson, wishes that anyone else had hauled him out of the mud at practice.

"A joke?" Derek says, and there’s something in the startled tone of his voice that Stiles should probably pay attention to only he’s still stuck on how Derek’s hand had felt, big and strong and a little warmer than most people run. Stiles rubs a hand over his face, his borrowed suit jacket tugging against his shoulders.

"Jackson put you up to it, right?" he asks. "Of course Jackson put you up to it."

He hadn’t thought they were that close, actually, but there’s no way else to explain the little smile on Derek’s face as he’d asked him to dance. As he’d _asked_ him to _dance_. Say what you like about Stiles, he’s not freaking delusional.

"I’m just - " Stiles says, casting a look around the hall, inwardly groaning as he sees two dark heads bent together. "I’m just going to go."

It wouldn’t have been raining outside if Stiles had had his jeep. If he’d had his jeep the night would’ve been clear and beautiful, but Scott had needed moral support so of course it’s thundering down onto the parking lot. And of course Scott has been trying to make time with Alison for weeks, months, for (to hear him tell it) the entire span of human history, so there’s no way Stiles is going to do anything other than pelt across the parking lot to swing his soaked way onto the last bus of the evening. He has just enough change for the fare. He doesn’t have one of his shoes, because they were borrowed, and hideously uncomfortable, and too big, and of course that would happen, of _course_.

The three blocks to his house from the bus stop are just the icy uncomfortable soggy-sweatsocked straw that broke the proverbial camel’s spirit, and he doesn’t even have the energy to swear when he realises that his keys are in his bag, and his bag’s in Scott’s car, and the universe is laughing at his pain and probably posting pictures of it on Instagram.

He slides down the door and lands with a sad wet thump at the bottom. And yeah, okay, maybe he’s wallowing a little; enough not to notice the car engine drawing close and cutting off, enough to ignore the footsteps coming closer until he’s being undeniably loomed at.

"What," he asks his knees.

His shoe thumps into his lap. Stiles lets out an embarrassing snort of a laugh, leans back against the door so he can tilt his head up and take in the wonder that is Derek Hale, suited up and soaking wet and smiling with one corner of his mouth, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to commit.

"My Prince Charming," Stiles says, thick with sarcasm.

Derek shrugs and brushes the raindrops from his hair, looking a little uncomfortable. “I don’t have a sense of humor,” he says.

"What?"

"You can ask anybody."

"Lies," Stiles says flatly. "I know I’ve made you laugh."

"And that," Derek says patiently, "is why I wasn’t joking."

Stiles looks down and fiddles with a shoelace, and Derek groans and thumps to his knees on the porch, in his suit that isn’t old and ill-fitting and borrowed from a relative, but probably cost more than Stiles’ jeep. He makes a small protesting noise without meaning to, which at least disguises the tiny startled squeak that Derek’s finger against his chin prompts. His hand is so _warm_.

"If you need me to go try the shoes on ugly sisters first we can do that," Derek says, somehow earnest while still smirking.

"Wouldn’t work," Stiles says. "The shoes don’t fit me. Also I’m an only child."

"Then fuck the fairytales," Derek tells him, and his big hand curves around Stiles’ jaw, pulls him close enough that Derek can brush their lips together, tilt his head, try again.

It’s ironic, because Stiles is pretty sure this is how all the fairytales end.


	9. Garden Centre

"It’s just a wilting plant," an amused voice says behind him, and while a part of him wishes he didn’t know the voice well enough to recognise, the rest of him is grateful for the chance to brace himself before turning. There’s still the liquid warmth in his stomach, the pounding of his stupid heart, but at least he knows what’s coming.

Stiles - he has a name tag, it’s absolutely not weird that Derek remembers his name - reaches past him and grabs the offending pot plant, dirt ground into the seams of his palm. It goes on the trolley with a bunch of others, and Derek glares at them for lack of a safer target.

"This is Maude," Stiles says. "She is not a part of your existential crisis."

"I’m not having an - " Derek starts, then - "wait, you name your plants?"

"Of course I name my plants, what the hell else am I going to do with my afternoons? Also you totally look like the kind of guy who attaches meaning to this shit, like every dying leaf is a metaphor for the rise in hipster commercialism and the lack of Starbucks as an easy illustration of declining individualism, or something."

Derek stares at him for a minute, and Stiles’ easy grin shifts into something a little less comfortable.

"How would that metaphor even _work_?” he asks, kind of dazed, but at least it makes Stiles’ grin return full force.

"No clue," he says. "It’s your metaphor, I can’t be responsible for the workings of your brain."

Derek is not an idiot, okay, he has a degree, and the static that fills his head when Stiles is close by should not be taken as an indication of anything. He frowns a little, lost for what to say, and Stiles shrugs.

"Catch you later, Derek."

It’s his name that does it. His name, Stiles’ mouth, and his hand has tangled into the edge of Stiles’ heavy canvas apron before he’s even formed a coherent thought.

"Do you want to get coffee with me?" Derek blurts out, all in a rush, barely intelligible.

"Um." Stiles blinks at him for a couple of agonising seconds; the only reason Derek’s still standing here is that he hasn’t started laughing, although there’s a worrying twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Yes?"

"You don’t have to," Derek says, and it’s maybe a little more surly than he meant it.

"No, I want to, I just have this slight fear you might snap and kill me. With the kung-fu death grip, and all. It seems like that is a thing that could happen."

"No death," Derek tells him solemnly.

"And no existential metaphors at the inevitable commercially hipster coffee shop?"

"No promises," Derek says, and grins.

"Oh wow," Stiles says, blinking. "Oh, wow, you should do that around me all the time."

Derek is pretty sure that won’t be a problem.


	10. Summer

"Ugh," Stiles groaned. 

Derek shifted his weight slightly and Stiles groaned again, arching his back away from the mattress like that would ease anything, make it something he could bear. 

"Oh god," Stiles moaned, wrecked and pathetic, "this has to be the most disgusting thing that has ever happened to me." 

The window was as far open as it would go but there wasn’t even the hint of a breeze, and when Derek peeled his arm away from Stiles’ side it tried to stick, tacky in the heat-heavy air. 

"Stiles," Derek said, but Stiles didn’t even look at him, starfished on the bed and whimpering faintly. He leaned closer, tried again. " _Stiles_.” 

"No," Stiles said. "Leave me here to - don’t even try that!" 

Derek ignored him, tasting the salt skin at his temple, running his nose along Stiles’ hairline and prompting another pathetic noise. 

"Noooo, I can’t boner, I swear the added heat will make my dick spontaneously combust." 

"Two words," Derek said, hot breath that Stiles flinched away from. 

"Ice cream?" Stiles said. “‘cos, seriously, I’m reasonably certain that ice cream is the only two words that will ever interest me again. Summer, you, the hideous exothermic reaction of your hotness - I may never get hard again."

Derek leaned back far enough that he could meet Stiles’ eyes, the thin rim of colour around pupils that belied his every word. 

He grinned. 

"Shower sex," he said. 

(Turns out Stiles had lied).


	11. (Just Ask A Glass of Water)

Derek thinks his life would be easier if he could get drunk. 

Stiles isn’t great at explaining it, generally trails off into laughter and vague hand gestures, but from the outside it looks like the moments where sleep has finished and awake hasn’t quite kicked in. A drunk Stiles blinks slow and smiles easy, makes logical leaps that are just on the edge of dreaming, kisses languid and bitter and endless as the ocean. 

Derek likes to think he could be like that, drunk. That he could bend without breaking, slide lower in his seat and against Stiles’ side, could let all the backed up words slide like liquid from his tongue. He could laugh more and lean more and mutter filthy promises in Stiles’ ear without having to check three times that no one else can hear them. 

Drunk is the opposite of secrets, the backwards wave-fragmented reflection of Derek. 

Since he can’t get drunk he makes do with mornings, just a little way from the shores of awake. When he can pretend it’s all dreaming, when Stiles is still breathing heavy and slow and only tightening fingers on the arm Derek has across his middle suggest he’s seeing anything but dreamy blue.

That’s when Derek bends, leans, curls around him, breathes secrets into the shell of his ear. When he buries his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck and breathes him until he feels like he’s drowning, helpless, until Stiles shrugs him off and starfishes across the mattress and makes demands and whines and reminds him he should allow himself this on the dry land of sober reality, too. 

It’s like shifting tides, easier at different times; times when it ebbs and he glowers across rooms, times when he lets it eddy at pack meetings around the fingers they’ve tangled together. Stiles is slowly melting his resistance, turning him languid and liquid and ready to be fully submerged.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Lydia friendship, sex swap

Lydia collapses backwards across Stiles’ bed, absentmindedly cataloging the differences - her short hair feels odd against the pillow, sort of bristly; there are no breasts to head for her armpits as soon as she’s horizontal. She’s actually a surprising fan of the lack of bra, because as many uses as a pretty piece of lingerie can have the lack of strapping constraining her every movement is incredible. She arches her back, mentally noting the change in weight distribution, stretches out her legs, then absently brushes her hand across her chest. At least she has definition. 

Stiles clears his throat and she shoves herself up to lean against the shelf behind his bed, arching one eyebrow. 

"If you could just - not," he says, cheeks flushed adorably pink, "that’d be great for my continued sanity, Lydia." 

"Not what?" she asks absently, and he looks pointedly at where her thumb is still running slowly across her pectorals. 

"Huh," she says. "I thought you were all about the short skirts, Stiles." 

"I was all about _you_ ,” he says, hunching a little in his chair, embarrassed. “Genius intellect, Machiavellian sensibilities, Slytherin affiliation.” 

"Please," she says. "I’m not obvious enough about it to be Slytherin. Also, I’m sorry, _was_?” She runs a hand down her tight shirt where it clings to her abs, hooks a thumb into the waistband of her jeans so that blunter than usual fingers point unsubtly downwards. Watching Stiles’ eyes flicker between those fingers and her face, cheeks slowly flushing darker, is satisfying in a way she hadn’t expected. “Don’t you think I’m _pretty_ , Stiles?” 

"I always think you’re beautiful, Lydia," he says, and there’s something hopeless in his tone that makes her feel suddenly ashamed. She pulls herself to sit more upright, crosses her legs and then winces, adjusts herself, tries again. 

"Does anyone know?" she asks, carefully modulating her weirdly lower voice into something that’s not _sympathetic_ , precisely, but understanding. Open. 

"That I think you’re beautiful?" he snorts, turns back to his book so she won’t see the ugly way discomfort twists his face. "I think that people have got that one, yeah." He flicks a couple of pages, the noise louder than it should be inside his silence. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly through his nose. "That I’m not really bothered about the particular parts attached to the body I find attractive? Mostly Scott. And now you." 

"I won’t tell," Lydia says, and it’s so elementary school, and it’s so the relationship she and Stiles should have had. He would have been an excellent best friend, if he wasn’t so stubborn. _Could_ be, maybe. “You should tell Derek,” she says, in the interests of promoting that budding possibility. 

Stiles spins around in his chair, gapes at her, chokes out an open-mouthed laugh that’s too bitter to have anything to do with humor. 

“ _Derek_? Why the hell would I -“

"I think he’d like it," she says over him. You have to bulldoze, with Stiles. 

He blinks at her. 

"I - really?" He blinks at her, expression wide open. It’s the same way he used to look at her and she’s so glad he stopped; he looks fragile like this, easily broken, and it’s not an expression she ever wanted to be entrusted with. She’s never been the protective sort; it’ll be safer in Derek’s hands. 

"I’ll help you," she says, and she loves the smiles he wears when there’s no nerves hanging on the corners, they’ve always suited him better. 

"That - thanks, Lydia. That’d be good." He stretches out his arms, cracks his knuckles, gets back to his book. "But hey, how about first we get rid of your dick?"


	13. Stiles Is Possibly a Disney Princess

Stiles stumbled out into the hallway, limbs all over the place, and slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it for good measure. Derek snorted and accusing eyes sought him out in the shadows, narrowed into a glare. 

"Okay," Stiles said, "you are weird, I accept. Your house is weird, and that’s fine. But your crockery is just fucking _unsettling_.” 

Derek shrugged one shoulder, a smile snagging the corner of his mouth. 

"I can replace it," he offered. 

The muffled singing behind the door abruptly cut off.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This did not end up where I thought it would end up.

"What, you thought this just happened?" 

Derek was honestly a little afraid to move. The guy was a flurry of movement and noise and absurdly dexterous fingers, tugging and pinning and smoothing things almost faster than he could follow. 

"You figured you just got, what, vacuum-formed into this thing? You could just take something off the rack and be ready for your close-up?" 

One long, skinny finger poked angrily into his chest and Derek scowled at him. 

"Let me tell you, mister," he continued, before Derek could formulate anything (that didn’t involve eyebrows) in the way of a response, "I did a whole semester on skylines, okay. The history of silhouettes in concept design. My color-wheels are works of freaking art and I don’t appreciate being told that - "

There was a gentle rap of knuckles at the door and they both looked around to see Aiden, the over-friendly receptionist, smirking in the doorway. 

"Your eleven o’clock’s here, Stiles." 

Stiles - and what kind of a name was that? - blinked twice. 

"Wait. He’s not Jackson?" He turned to look at Derek accusingly, like _any_ of this was his fault. “You’re not Slither? With the scales and the tails and the insulting emails?”

"Nice," Aiden said. Stiles held out a hand without turning and Aiden bumped fists with him, both of them making a tiny explosion noise absently, like a habit. 

"I’m a courier," Derek said. "I have a package." 

Stiles’ eyes narrowed and he bit his lip. When it wasn’t tight with anger, Stiles’ mouth was a thing of beauty. It curled into a knowing smirk as he slowly looked Derek up and down. 

“ _I’ll_ say you do.” He stepped closer and Derek did his best to make it look natural when he leaned in. He didn’t need to remind himself to keep his eyes on Stiles’ lips. 

"Stiles," Aiden said, impatient, amused. "What should I do with Jackson?" 

Stiles waved an absent hand. 

"Matt can play with him." 

Aiden rolled his eyes and left Derek alone in a room with Stiles, who - now that Derek had a chance to look at him, now that he wasn’t a whirlwind of motion and emotion ad dressmaking pins - was far more Derek’s type than spandex was going to let him feel comfortable with. 

"So, UPS," Stiles said, slinking over to the camera by the mirror and switching it off, "you just do whatever you’re told to?" Another switch, by the cutting table. "Someone tells you to take off all your clothes and that’s just another day for you?" A final movement as he unplugged something that had been hidden in a vase of flowers, and then suddenly he was in motion again, focused and sharp and deep inside Derek’s personal space. 

"They can’t hear us," he said, low-voiced. "We’ve got maximum ten minutes before anyone comes looking. I’m assuming shape-changer?"

Derek nodded sharply. “Wolf.” 

“ _Sweet_ ,” Stiles said, which was a reaction more inappropriate and more honest than Derek had ever had yet. “And un-collared, too. How much bulk do you put on?” 

"No full change," Derek said. 

"Good, okay, so the fabric will stretch enough to - come on, put your clothes back on over it. It’s not - we can’t get you kitted out now, obviously, but I’m assuming Scott knows where you’ll be? So I’ll find you. Get this finished up." 

Derek pulled his shirt back on over the dark fabric, stepped into his shoes. 

"And the jacket," Stiles said. "Seriously, you couldn’t have worn a looser shirt?" 

"They won’t notice the loss of the fabric?"

"I’ll tell them I messed up," Stiles said, and the flush on his cheeks didn’t hide the pallor of the rest of his face. "Wouldn’t be the first time." 

"You know what they’ll do to you." It wasn’t a question. Stiles rolled his eyes. 

"I know what they’ll do." He smiled, mouth tight and eyes hard. "Might not be a mutant, can’t fight the good fight, but I do what I can. Viva la revolución."


	15. Start of Something

He wouldn’t ordinarily have seen it, tucked away into the bushes as it is, but over enthusiastic Reese’s reclamation had led to a fountain of basically everything in his bag scattering all over what feels like about a square mile of the preserve. In a rare stroke of luck the flashlight had been heavy enough to land practically at his feet; he’d thought the glint was his car keys, originally. 

There’s no security code on it so he taps past the home screen, the weird wallpaper that’s… maybe fireflies? A really badly taken picture of two little dots of light in the darkness. The contacts page is a mess of names with no indication of who they are, how important they are, until he reaches ‘Growlybear’. To each their own, okay, Stiles isn’t judging. Laughing, maybe. He shoots off a text anyway. 

_Hey i found your girlfriend’s(?) phone_

He shoves it in his back pocket, gets back to hunting for his keys, flicking the flashlight across the ground in a systematic grid pattern, and then occasionally getting frustrated and providing an impromptu dance party for the raccoons. Racoons? It occurs to him to wonder what kind of animals rustle in the preserve’s foliage at night. Nothing too big, right? 

The sudden burst of noise from his back pocket scares the shit out of him and he almost drops the flashlight, juggling it back and forth between his hands. 

Was that - was that the cut scene noise from the Batman series? Holy shit, Stiles might be in love with the owner of this phone. 

_Erica?_

Stiles glares at the phone for a minute. Okay, yeah, it’s dark, but it’s not late enough for that level of reading incompreh- It’s 3am. Stiles blinks at the corner of the screen for a second. Wow. It’s - how did it get to 3am? This is the problem of parents with night shifts, okay, when Ms McCall is around he gets chucked out way earlier. 

_Okay_ , he types back, Erica. I found Erica’s phone. _Sorry didn’t look at the time. Can return it tomorrow?_

_Where are you?_

Stiles blinks at the phone for a second. Does this person still think he’s their girlfriend? It’s starting to get a little weird. 

_At the preserve_ , he says. It’s friendly, but vague enough. _Looking for lost car keys. We could meet at the Starbucks by the library tomorrow so I can return this?_

_I’ll be there in five minutes._

"Wait, what?" Stiles gives up on the rest of his possessions, on his car keys for now, and heads instead for where he’d left the jeep. There’s an easy way to pop the lock in the back and he likes the jeep, okay. The jeep has mace. 

It’s not like anyone can find him, the preserve is a hell of a big place, but just to make himself feel better - 

"You have Erica’s phone?" 

Stiles shrieks and jumps backwards and practically blinds the guy with his flashlight beam. The quick glimpse he gets before the guy is wincing, holding up a hand to cover his eyes, could _totally_ be a serial killer, all stubble and leather and wow, bone structure. 

"How the hell did you find - what are you _doing_ out here?” 

"I live here," the guy says, and that’s not, like, foreboding at all. "Erica’s phone?" 

He clicks his fingers, demanding, and Stiles chucks the phone over. 

"Thanks," the guy says, with a quick flash of teeth that _in no way_ resembles a normal people smile. 

"No problem, Growlybear," he says, because people who scare the shit out of him revoke all rights to not be mocked. 

The guy rolls his eyes, which is somehow kind of reassuring. It’s not very murdery, more like an annoyed sibling. Kind of like the way Scott looks at Stiles, sometimes. 

"Catch," he says, and Stiles throws up a hand and somehow manages to snag the bunch of keys before they his his face. 

_His_ bunch of keys. 

"I - thanks," he says, confused and more than a little freaked out, but when he looks up the guy is gone.


	16. Mood hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon request: could you do a version of mood hair? like with a mood ring but with hair changing colours

When Stiles pulled away, Derek was grinning, open and unrestrained and wider than Stiles had ever seen him smile. Stiles echoed it, a ridiculous bubble of laughter trapped in his chest and making everything feel lighter and easier, and he responded eagerly when this time it was Derek who leaned in. 

It was seriously the best kiss he had ever had, bar none, and he didn’t want it to ever end - only he flinched back when something flashed in his peripheral vision. 

"What the hell?"

Derek pushed himself back on the couch, swore shaky and barely under his breath. 

"Sorry," he said, "shit, sorry. Was that too - did you not - "

Stiles flung himself across the space between them and planted one on him, sloppy and inelegant and purely for purposes of demonstration. 

"Look, I’m not some blushing virgin," he panted, when Derek finally considered it had been adequately demonstrated. "I mean - technically, yeah I’m - but there is literally nothing you could do to me right now that I would not welcome with open - " there was just no good way to finish that sentence. "Delete as appropriate," he finally settled on. 

"So, what -"

"Nothing," Stiles said, shaking his head and leaning closer. It was seriously gratifying, how Derek couldn’t stop his eyes flicking between Stiles’ eyes and his mouth. "Seeing things." 

Stiles eased in, this time. Cupped Derek’s cheek in his palm, took his time teasing his lips apart, and then - 

"No, seriously, what the _hell_ Derek? Either I’ve gone insane or your hair is going - “

"Pink?" Derek said, and he sounded, he sounded resigned, and how in the hell was that ever a response to multicolored extremities?

“ _Why is your hair pink?_ ” Stiles squawked. 

Derek looked uncomfortable, and his hair slowly faded more towards green. 

"It’s a born werewolf thing," he said. "Heightened emotions make our hair change color." 

"But - " Stiles flailed. "But your hair has been black _literally since we met you_ ,” he managed. 

"Yeah," Derek said. "About that - "

*

"So I don’t have to worry about dyeing my hair," Scott said. 

"Nah." Stiles grabbed another slice of pizza and made a decent attempt at shoving it into his mouth, whole. "Jus’ f’ b’n wo’s." 

"But it’s kind of - I mean, seriously, how scary can Derek be with purple hair, dude?" 

Stiles made loud protesting noises, holding up a finger until he finally managed to swallow. 

"Okay one, no. Purple is sexual frustration, no way in hell. Two, in public we can pretty much count on his hair being black, because black is UST and I swear the guy has it with inanimate objects." 

"So why the hell is his hair stuck on pink, lately?" Scott asked plaintively. 

"Because he’s been around me," Stiles said, and the slowest and smuggest grin that had ever settled there made its way onto his face. "And I am resolving, baby. I am gonna resolve until my hips give out."

The look on Scott’s face was worth the attempts made to smother him with a pillow, as Stiles cackled until tears were running down his face.


	17. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind"

Stiles coughed, waving away the cloud of smoke that was heavily scented with sulfur. His first instinct was to do a small dance of victory - it had worked! The circle appeared to be holding! But that inclination rather vanished when he saw the creature that occupied the center of the circle. 

"This - isn’t exactly what I had in mind," Stiles said. 

The creature in the circle - a male, very definitely and evidently and unarguably male, and therefore, he surmised, an incubus - arched a beautifully shaped eyebrow. 

"Perhaps not," it said, and gave a charming and boyish grin complete with deeply etched dimples, that was quite undermined by the light in its eyes. "It was evidently, however, what was _wanted_.” 

"No, I - " Stiles gaped for a moment, quite unable to explain himself in adequate language, so baffled that magic could be so treacherous, that hidden leanings might manifest themselves thus. "I hadn’t expected," he concluded, a little miserably.

"That is no concern of mine," the demon said. "Shall we get to it?" 

"Get to - " his mouth evidently outpaced his mind, though not by much; before he had finished the sentence the color had risen high in Stiles’ cheeks, turning them from pale to quite fuchsia. "No, I - that wasn’t it at all!"

The demon’s skin, which was very noticeably all on display, was a pale golden color far more suited to candlelight; it was difficult not to notice, Stiles told himself, and meant absolutely nothing in the least. 

"No?" he said. "Pity." 

"Do you - find me attractive?" Stiles asked, a strange sort of weight attached to the answer and his stomach with two ends of the same cord.

"Oh, very," said the demon, casual and off-hand. "We feed off the lusts, you see, and you’d be like a fine steak dinner at the end of a long day." 

Stiles, who had begun preening a little, abruptly deflated. 

"Well since you are here," he said, and fetched a pencil and some sheets of rough paper, "there are questions I’d ask you." He took great care not to meet the demon’s dark eyes, for he’d a feeling they’d be laughing at him. "In the name of science," he said. 

"Oh," said the demon. "Of course." 

*

As the son of a policeman, Stiles’ chambers were neither particularly well situated nor particularly large. They were reasonably well protected, though, but Derek had been coming here long enough that none of the tenants would hesitate to let him in. 

There were voices coming from Stiles’ rooms, but when he had shown reticence in the past in entering Stiles had always berated him in no uncertain terms, for their association - for neither could quite call it friendship and be satisfied that it was comprehensive - often depended on haste. 

So Derek did not hesitate to push open the door onto candlelight and disorder, the furnishings pushed to the corners of the room and a large circle drawn in mountain ash in the center. 

And in the center of that - 

"Oh," Derek said. Stiles turned to the door, color flooding his face and then draining just as suddenly away, leaving him greenish and gaping. 

"I _see_ ,” said the beautiful young man who lounged, without a stitch of clothing, in the center of the floor. 

"My apologies," Derek said, and turned on his heel, closing the door cautiously behind him for fear the handle would break off in his hand.


End file.
